


when serendipity whispers

by gigiree, megamegaturtle



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: :), Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Serendipity AU, Slow Burn, Time Loop AU, backpacking in china, everything in between, fun times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6174874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If serendipity is having good luck and fortune by happenstance, then in this universe they have none. Because in most stories they meet their true loves in France, but magic would have to exist for that. </p><p>(And here’s a secret: it does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. knotted with (false) memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alyseb630](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyseb630/gifts).



> Alyse, you're one of the sweetest people we know and we love you very much! :)

_It always comes back to_ this _moment_ , he realizes as his back is flat pressed to a cold hard ground and his Lady is over him. It’s the exact same scene where words are glued to the inside of his mouth and refuse to be spoken. **  
**

Really, all he wants to say is _It’s okay_. But they cling to his teeth, to his tongue and won’t let either move in a way that is useful. This is the fourth time too, he knows. The fourth time Death knocks unexpectedly and grabs hold of his shoulders to pull him out of this mortal world. However, that is a new revelation. Knowing  is new. He knows that this is the fourth time that Death appears because the last three cycles of memories are crashing over him. He knows about the three wonderful other lifetimes he had before this one too.

_One boy tells a girl that he’s in love with her._

_Two teenagers lean in close for a kiss as their suits disappear._

_Three days together, three days together from confession to first kiss before it’s over._

And like the three previous ones, the fourth is speedily ending in the same way: dying in the arms of the girl he loves most.   

This time he’s Chat Noir and she’s Marinette (but last time he was Adrien and she was Ladybug). She’s screaming, maybe calling his name or yelling for help, a muffled sound at the edges of his mind. She’s hoping that he’ll stay with her. Like a play that they’ve rehearsed, it’s hard to focus on her cries when all that Adrien sees is the blue of her eyes. They are sky blue and clouded with tears that roll down her face like rain drops, but to him, it’s still paradise despite the stormy weather.

“Help is on the way,” she says, her voice shaky as she gives an already broken promise. It’s not her fault, he knows, but he wishes that she didn’t have to say it.

Her gentle fingers feather his bangs, her warm fingertips filled with life and blood behind her skin. His blood is on her skin though, staining it red as she applies pressure to side of his neck, an action that somehow keeps the cold away. His life is literally bleeding away, gushing out of the gash near his jugular, slipping between her hands when it should be pumping in his heart.  He wants to lift a hand and cup her face, just touch her own more time, but he’s slowly growing tired, sleepy even as she looks only at him like he’s all that matters in the world. And under most circumstances, he would relish in being the center of her world, but right now, he hates it.

He hates it because he’s leaving and Death is slowly gathering his soul from his body, pulling it up and ripping the seams of what tethers him to this reality. Each thread breaking, the snap of the twine echoing in the darkness that he will soon follow. But Plagg is trying to fix each broken stitch, sew it up and bind him to life once again.

Adrien is positive it isn’t working.

With a swallow, or he thinks it’s a swallow–honestly, it’s too painful–he pries his mouth open and speaks. “Marinette,” he whispers, her name barely a puff of air, a wisp of a prayer.

Somehow his words are lifted by the wind and reach her ears, the mention of her name pausing the stroke of her hand upon his forehead.  In that moment, in that pause, it says more than all the words they know, more than all the knowledge tucked behind their brows. It is only a second, the briefest measures of time for human understanding, but it echoes her fears between the cracks of unfilled promises made during three lifetime thus far. Time begins to freeze too, the creeping feeling of stillness pricking their skin and adding stiffness to the moment as their hearts skip one, two, three, four beats.

Blue eyes meet green, find them in the slowest of turns as she looks down at him and her gaze is filled with fire.

“I’ll fix it this time,” she says evenly. “Just trust me.”

It is comes down to this, this very moment where Adrien is dying in the arms of his love. He can’t say anything. The wound he has makes his voice not work anymore as blood pours out of it. Death is winning, weaving torn strings through the fading tapestry that is his existence. And it isn’t like he doesn’t trust her (because he does) but there is nothing he can do and he’s tired of remembering three lifetimes worth of memories at the very last second and watching Marinette try to save him at _some cost to her that she won’t even remember_.

Because that’s what’s going to happen. He knows that too.

And there are dreams that repeat, that come back and sneak up on you when you least expect it, lulling you into a false sense of security that things will be different. But they never are. At first, it doesn’t seem unusual for dreams to reappear. There’s a sense of longing for something that was once cool, once interesting while your mind created a world you’ve never seen before played across the backs of your eyelids.

That’s how Adrien felt in the beginning too, eagerness welling up at the realization that a dream was becoming more familiar in his own dreamscape, a land where bright red and blue meant adventure and maybe love. It was fun at first to dream up a girl whose smile peeked behind pretty pink lips like starlight and whose eyes must have been the day themselves manifested in blue. And each night he would whisper his goodbyes to only know that girl he wouldn’t remember while awake.

Still, that’s the odd thing about dreaming and living and sleeping and being, because depending on the state. The concept of reality twists and shifts and what’s real is and isn’t seems hard to tell apart. But people know when they don’t remember dreams, the feeling of deja vu just tapping on memories locked away behind a gate whose only admission ticket reads the words REM.

And here is where this leaves Adrien now, caught in a dream he won’t remember about a past he doesn’t know because before them is Fate, the one who controls time and space.

His eyes are always hazy at this point; filled with sleep that will last an eternity so he can never really see the outline of Fate. He never knows for sure if Fate has a body or is just a presence with some type of voice.

**Do you now know what you have to exchange, Marinette?**

In her hold, he feels Marinette take a deep breath, sucking in as much timeless air as she possibly can before pushing it out in a solid sentence. “I do.”

His eyelids are drooping shut, but even without looking at her, he knows that she has squared her shoulders and is staring at Fate right in the eye.

**And what is it?**

“I give up,” her voice catches, but she pushes through. “I exchange our magic, I give up us being Ladybug and Chat Noir for Adrien’s life.”

If he had a voice (because he knows he doesn’t have one)  Adrien would shout, would yell, would plead for something else. Because that’s how they met right? As Ladybug and Chat Noir… that part of their identities that were the first to meet before the rest could catch up and faces and names could be exchanged and traded to mean so much more than just two saviors of Paris or even two classmates. Yet this is a dream he won’t remember, of a lifetime that is already over, caught in a loop of a failure of the first attempt of Marinette doing something stupid without listening to his voice of reason.

It is silent for a moment, but a clock chimes, the signal and affirmation of a renewal built upon the loss of what already has transpired, threaded by memories of lives that neither will remember again. The rings ripple the air, vibrating in his chest as if his own heartbeat for it has already stopped moving. Marinette’s too.

**Let us see if this exchange will change his fate _this_ time.**

And this is the moment where he knows the dream shall end. Fate’s voice clarifies that the finale is upon them. Reset. Restart. Because that’s what Fate does. he changes things and plays games and starts over when he sees fit. He pulls at things woven, unraveling and creating and fraying and fixing.

Adrien doesn’t know how the reset happens; he doesn’t know when his new life begins or where is old life ends. He simply wakes up with new memories and tangled thoughts running knotted red strings through his lives. A part of him accepts that he’ll have no recollection. A part of him accepts that free will is only a foolish design created by even more foolish men who desire a need to justify the hand that has been dealt to them.

(They strain against the strings, but the thread does not break)

But as he takes his last breath as the dream begins to fade, he hopes that isn’t true because this can’t be all that Fate wants from him. For life is more than being a puppet and Adrien refuses to partake because no matter the lifetime or the place or their intersection in the universe, he will find his way back to Marinette.

(Red strings, indeed)

The only problem lies if he can remember. His thoughts are fraying, too many loose ends. And when he wakes, it’s all over.

* * *

There is a headache pounding between the fissures of his skull, following the lines with precise thumping to just be annoying enough without turning into a migraine. It’s the subtle drum of thoughts looping in his mind, cycling through the different stages of logic and almost knowing, but eventually starting at the beginning with the baseline of nothing.

_It’s the dream I can’t remember, but I know that I had it again._

There are flashes of red and blue and girl whose face vanishes into nothing, but it means something.

And it doesn’t help that this course of thinking goes on repeat as he is standing outside in the hot humid air, the sun shining bright, almost burning the layer of the ozone. Sweat slicks his back, gathering just above where his lumbar is located because that is where his pack is heaviest. The straps dig into his shoulders, shifting from the soft cotton cloth of his shirt and slipping onto his tanned skin. Adrien could just put it down, the blond knows, but he also knows that the second he does, the bus will arrive.  

Slipping both sets of his forefingers under his dark aviator sunglasses, he attempts to disperse the pain that is stinging his optic nerves, hoping to ease the tension. There is instant relief when he does that; however, it leaves just as quickly as he came and the thumping, the drumming, the stinging all remain once again.

It is suffice to say that he feels tired, exhausted from exhausting dreaming he can’t remember. And for mornings like today when he needs to go somewhere, with places to go and people see, he prefers to not constantly feel the need to nap. But sleeping is for the weak when you’re backpacking across one the largest countries in the world.  

Letting go, a burning sensation flares down his sinuses, singeing as he breathes in moist humid air in this almost tropical climate. He ignores it though while he unscrews his lukewarm water bottle, the water only slightly satisfying as he takes a sip because heaven knows it’s almost impossible to get a cold drink in China.

(And never mind wanting to eat a salad in the middle of summer in this country either–that’s even more impossible than it is to get a cup of ice!)

Though he has to admit that may be because he’s avoiding metropolises, avoiding smog covered cities jammed pack with people during travel season, but finds himself on a path that is a little more greener. It could be because he’s positive where he is right now doesn’t have either a Starbucks or a McDonald’s, but it’s hard to ignore the farmers that sell their produce out of the backs of vans.  Old men with happy smiles who are excited to give a foreigner a big watermelon for just the right price.

Because China is more than tall buildings and factories, built at record speed for a booming economy, but it’s also a country with small little somewhat rural towns where billboards promise that 4G cell phone coverage will be coming soon. It’s also the same place where young girls play on their iPhones in short heels and flowy skirts as they wait for the bus, hiding shy smiles behind their hands as they look at him.  

Of course, you can’t forget the random chicken in what he basically considers to be an almost suburbia either as it struts and clucks along the dusty pavement. Taking another sip of water he tries to bury his laugh and not choke because despite that he has only been travelling for a few days, the reason why there have been only one singular mysterious chicken has continued to elude him.

And just as how the real life mystery of why the chicken crosses the road has still to be answered, Adrien wonders too how his shirt got a  loose red thread as it brushes against his inner arm. The stray string tickles his the sensitive flesh there, like a ghost’s fingers that sends shivers to every layer of his skin.

With searching hands, he smooths down his sides of his faded red tank top and finds the fraying thread as predicted at the hem. Pursing his lips, he curls it around his index finger, preparing to break the stitch. He tugs, thinking it would snap, but it remains taut as the circulation is cut off from his finger. Yet as he’s about to try again, he stops when he hears broken Chinese being spoken, the French accent more than familiar.

「帮我？请?」

[Help me? Please?]

If déjà vu’ means “already seen” in his native language and is the phenomenon of having the strong sensation that an event currently being experienced has already happened in the past, then it his hitting him square in the face right now, leaving all thoughts of loose red strings forgotten. With a poor excuse of a translation and guide book in her hands, there stands a girl trying and failing to make a conversation with the young Chinese girls at the bus stop in the middle of nowhere China. He’s never seen her before. Doesn’t know her.

(But he does. Doesn’t he? Her name…what was it?)

Yet as quickly as déjà vu’ comes, stunning him as if he was doused in cold water, the glimpse of the French to Chinese subtitle on her book piques his interest enough to address her.  The feelings that rush him, warm and welcoming, are stranger than he has anticipated. Familiarity, kinship, humor and an indescribable aching melancholy that has no place in a sunny bus stop. But there’s not much he can do to stop the deluge of emotions. Distraction seems to be the only solution and with a small smile he moves forward to help, one foot in front of the other, gloom evaporating in the sun.

The young girls from earlier are trying in earnest, patiently waiting the newcomer to force out halting syllables. Adrien decides to end the painful encounter.

「打扰一下，我应该能帮她。」

[Excuse me, I think I can help her.]

The relief in their faces is almost comically palpable, the little sighs of thankful reprieve making the air lighter. Several pairs of eyes turn to him with a measure of awe and gratefulness. The girls eagerly shake their heads and acquiesce.

He then turns to the foreigner to clarify her native language.

He glances down, giving her a smile somewhere in between kind and dubious because the way she clutches her terrible guidebook–honestly, children’s books would be more useful–to her makes her look smaller than he thinks she can be. Strange feelings and even stranger thoughts flit through him, and he has to struggle not to let his vague annoyance slip into his expression.

_Why do you remind me of dreams I don’t remember?_

“French?” He asks lightly, knowing the answer already even though his sight drifts down to her book.

She looks up with wide eyes framed by heavy bangs, cheeks flushed with heat and nerves. She seems to settle herself, a deep breath making her slim shoulders rise under the straps of her dark backpack. Her grip on the book loosens in relaxation and then she nods in affirmation.

“Yes.”

The wide smile that she gives him is a little more than charming. It goes all the way up to her lovely blue eyes, sky blue to be precise.

(Again…familiarity…again….memory just beyond a summery haze… )

_Didn’t I use to say they also looked like a clear lake?_

“Ah…okay…good. Uh…Hold on!” He replies breathlessly, his lungs forgetting how to function. His head is thumping. His heart is thrumming and there is the swirl of something he’s supposed to know tickling his mind.

Distractions are needed. So he whirls with gusto to the other girls on the bench, nearly clocking the poor French girl’s head with the edge of his too big backpack. He hears her tiny shriek of fear and turns back just as sharply to apologize. Unfortunately, his bag is the size of a mini-fridge and it does end up knocking into one of the girls sitting on the bench.

She squeals in slight discomfort, waving away his concern.

He is utterly embarrassed and he knows the tips of his ears are already red. Mortification shoots through him, rooting him to his spot until he doesn’t know where to turn and merely looks at his feet, apologies flying from his perfect mouth.

“Shit…I mean shoot…Uh…I’m so sorry.” He tries to appease and then, before any more mishaps occur, tries to settle the situation.

Fortunately for him, the girls are kind and understanding. Through their laughter, they ask if everything’s okay. The looks on their faces tell him he’s lost a lot of his dignity and a little of the awe he had inspired as a tall, blond in the middle of China. They laugh prettily into their hands when he shakes his head a bit too enthusiastically.

「对，没问题！」

[Yup, there’s no problem!]

With that, the girls turn back to the fluid conversation they were having, leaving them alone.  

(Strangely enough, the change in interaction feels entirely smooth, the dynamics of their presence fading back into cheery admiration and friendly comments completely within their own bubble.)

Occasionally they slip glances back at the two foreigners, but Adrien feels something settle into his chest when he realizes there is another French citizen here…here in Central China in this tiny bus stop under the summer’s heat. The old saying “fate works in funny ways” rings through his head.

“So umm…you speak French?” He offers, hooking his fingers under the straps of his backpack awkwardly.

“Ah…yep.” She answers skeptically, raising a questioning brow. Avoid his gaze, she picks at the hem of her billowy cream blouse that is partially tucked into her waist high shorts. She rocks back on the heels of her sneakers, keeping a steady rhythm when the silence between them stretches painfully.

“Thank you.” She finally manages, licking her chapped lips. She chances up a glance at him, reluctant and grateful. She pulls out a small brochure from the pages of her guide, creased haphazardly. She spreads it open in, tucking her book under her arm to maneuver herself better.

And it’s all so normal, he thinks. This moment somewhat perfectly familiar as she comes in close and he can smell white musk and citrus perfume from her nearness.  

“Umm…do you know what bus I should take?”

“Oh!”  Adrien jumps at the chance to redeem his image. He reaches down, follows her slim finger as she traces the roads to the location of interest. Excitement brightens his lovely face when he recognizes the faded characters on the map.  “You would take the bus headed north!

You’re heading to this temple?” he questions and her nod is all he needs to continue with his explanation.

“That’s awesome. It’s really nice this time of year, flowers blooming and stuff like that. It has lots of visitors, some for the architecture, some for the romance.”

“R-romance?”

“Yes! They say that if two lovers pray there, their love will last forever.” He grins wide, his tender dreams of love and magic and happy endings making his expression brighter than before. His grin is lopsided, his brows raised, and of course, the thump thump thump of his heart won’t seem to go away…

He doesn’t realize that his earnest joy makes his green eyes gleam almost gold in the sunlight, nor does he realize how suggestive his comment might be when he’s standing so close to French Girl (her newly dubbed name of course until otherwise corrected).

She seems to jolt at their increased proximity, cheeks flushing redder than his shirt as she steps back a step or two (because he doesn’t knows this, but they were almost cheek to cheek when he was crouching down). Her hands wave frantically in the air, words tumbling out in a heap of truthful explanations too specific to be a lie.

“It’s not that…oh god…no I mean not that you’re not attractive,” she starts, “but…My parents went to this temple when they first met. And they weren’t supposed to be together, but after they went there, they got married and things were good. Also I j..just got out of a three year relationship with the sweetest guy because I didn’t know what I wanted.”

She slows down, just a tad. She taps her fingers against her thighs, a melancholy hum flying from her lips. She continues.

“He was really nice…like he was the cutest tomato dude I’d ever gone out with, but there was…nothing there for me,” she continues as words fall out of her mouth, but Adrien is certain she still hasn’t taken a breath.  “And I just saw his Facebook status a month ago, and he’s in a relationship. But it’s okay, because his new girlfriend is…pretty. I guess. She has some good qualities deep down…like really, really deep down. And Oh…wait no..”

She pauses in her rant when she notices Adrien’s frown of concentration. She takes it as one of disapproval. Arms failing in every direction, she roars up again.

“OH NO! I’m not jealous or anything like that, I mean I’m here and I found someone like you and I’m on an adventure…OH GOD NO… I mean you’re great AND BEAUTIFUL….but shit..It’s just that things…didn’t pan out like I expected them to. And I thought that just maybe I could have some kind of weird soul-enlightening epiphany–and like do work shit too…and oh god…I just…umm…well thanks for the help…I guess.”

She trails off with a deep sigh, wringing her sweaty hands in a show of nervousness. She gives him a sheepish grin.

Adrien is about to move his dropped jaw to reply to the odd girl with a mouth full of explanations when they are hit with a hot, dry wave of humid air displaced by a bus lurching to a screeching halt next to them.

He sputters out the hair that has flown into his mouth and face, tasting the sharp scent of smog from the exhaust of the bus. The heat is nearly unbearable, sweat has run into his eyes and he wipes that away with the back of his arm. He can barely make out French Girl’s dawning look of recognition as she matches the number and direction of the bus with the one he had pointed to on the map.

Then the scene is ruined once more when a small old woman with a wrinkled scowl digs her leathery elbow into his hip. She mutters something about horny foreigners taking advantage of innocent young Chinese girls. Her throaty voice is harsh and grating as she waddles past him and edges herself in between him and French Girl.

The old woman’s expression seems to soften when she looks back at the tiny girl .Her voice even goes up a few registers, becoming maternal and slightly protective as she points to the bus and then back at the girl.  French Girl nods in confused agreement. She gives a panicked look at him as the Kind-of-Grandmother-Lady grasps her wrist and pulls her towards the bus and pointedly away from Adrien.

French Girl gives a hesitant wave as the distance between them grows, and all but scrambles onto the bus when the little old lady gives an insistent tug.  He’s too stunned to do much else but return the farewell, a slightly forced smile slapped on comically.

The bus starts moving again with an irritating screech. Then it hits him. That’s his bus. He needs to take the same bus. He begins to run, mini-fridge backpack clanking discordantly as the dust picks up around him.

“Wait! HOLD ON!” He shouts, waving his arms frantically to get the driver’s attention.

It seems to work. The bus squeaks to a stop about ten feet down the road. He runs, sprints even.  He’s close, just near enough to halt for a quick, desperate gulp of air. But then…through the dusty window..it’s the old lady again, speaking in muffled angry tones with the bus driver. She points harshly at Adrien through the sealed door, shaking her head and glancing briefly at an oblivious French Girl who is slumped against a seat in the back, head buried in her terrible guide book.

Everything moves as slow as molasses, through a golden haze of heat and sun. The driver glares at him, shifts gears as fast as he can on the ancient monstrosity they call a bus, and speeds away, leaving Adrien standing speechless and tired and angry in the middle of a countryside road in Central China.

He walks back to the now empty bus stop, fiddling with the loose red string on his shirt while he waits for the next bus.But it’s only then when the thought hits him and he can’t help but wonder aloud.

“Wait, did she just call me _beautiful_?”


	2. in dappled shades of bolded red and italicized blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It must be fate that Adrien and French Girl meet each other at this temple dedicated to lovers....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AFTER MUCH BADGERING, LATE NIGHT PHONE CALLS, AND PRETTY MUCH SPENDING SIXTY DOLLARS A TICKET GOING TO SEE A CHINESE DANCE SHOW (that was also really anti-communist lol), WE PRESENT TO YOU CHAPTER 2.
> 
> ah, how weirdness and beauty ensues.

It's hot. It's a statement of fact that it's hot, the summer sun blazing down on him, lighting his skin afire. It’s leaving blistering marks in their wake as it continues to swelter outside, the air thick with humidity. Moisture soaks Adrien’s skin, his clothes, and it feels like he’s literally being steamed alive, like a bao bun in a cook’s pot.  

In the sunshine, it's even hotter in the summertime, heat reflecting off the ground to burn his cheeks, his nose, his face. And yet, there is no shade, the trees that line this flat road lined by high walls and cracked sidewalks lending none. There is only him and the pavement, two beings on this journey towards human civilization as the bus broke down a mile back.

But that mile feels like millions stretched into strip of land that is just as straight and narrow that reminds him of people he wishes to forget. Sweat beads down his neck and all he can feel is the sticky second film cling to his skin. There is bad luck and then his luck and Adrien has to admit his luck has always been the worst kind. It manifests itself to be tangible--his luck--and uses its touch to destroy everything in its wake. For there can be no relief or reprieve when the sun beats down on him, aided by his misfortune to place him directly under a large magnifying glass to fry him to a crisp. And the strap edges of his backpack have to dig into his shoulder, rubbing the burnt skin there with the rough texture of the fabric.

The chaffing makes him feel like he’s almost bleeding, the sun ray’s minimizing themselves to billions of little needles that prick his very being. Left behind him is a red trail, red like the color he sees, red like the edges of his vision.

His steps are uneven, the walls growing taller, him growing smaller and all he sees is red. RED...Red suit, red ribbons wave in the wind, sun flares. Blinding, and hot. Headache threads through his temples, he closes his eyes, red behind his eyelids. Red on his cheeks. Red in _her_ hair. Red everywhere.

Red like the string loose on his shirt, red like the blood he’s seen in nightmares of things he doesn’t remember, red like the girl who doesn’t exist, but his heart claims she does. Red like lost promises, broken and unfulfilled by things he can’t control. Red like the color of his soul, red like demons and red like danger.

Red like the anger that brands his soul.

Red hot anger--hot, hot, hot--like the sun at an old woman who misunderstood his intentions. Frustration at himself for not speaking up, for continuing being a doll in someone else’s game.

 _Pose, Adrien. Don’t move, Adrien. Be a good son and do it right, Adrien_.

Adrien, Adrien, Adrien, a name that means a sea, but there is no coolness beneath his skin, no water to heal himself from scars made by the sun, made by a fire he can’t control. And the fire burns in him, on him and all that is left is a boy who is everything but cool, everything but healed.

And thirst tickles the back of this throat, claws and scratches the flesh on the inside. He still is that doll  who can’t speak but needs to be spoken for. Because that’s what happens with dolls, right? They can’t control what happens, have no say in the matter. Fate is a funny thing because no matter how far he distances himself from France, those strings that pull him by the wrists, the jaw, the legs still make him move to their own jig. There are still invisible burn scars where they touch, where they hold him down, and Adrien feels like he’s being razed to the ground, only to be blacken earth.

All he wants is to find water, to discover peace within himself, but all that lays around him is his misfortune, his bad luck that springs from every crack and puts blinders on his eyes so he can’t see the world.

All he wants to do is see the sky, to see the blue and look up and have hope grow in his heart.

But deserts without water remain barren, no grasses to flourish after a rainfall when fire rains down in invisible rays and scorches the land like they do his soul.

The road is still only going straight, never a change in any direction and the unknown seems to only be repeat of things Adrien has seen before in his lifetime. Monochrome, colored grey, colored black and it weighs heavy on his heart, heavy on his mind with things never changing.

And heat only amplifies and burns when the rest of the world looks bleak and segmented because he only has the road for his companion.

 _This is what loneliness is_ , he thinks _, a world where it’s only you and everything isn’t right._

So, he continues to walk and follow the lay of the road ahead because what else does Adrien have to lose? The answer is nothing. He’s got nothing to lose when the sun is roast him alive and the world is now colorless except the red of the fire that strokes his anger, his frustration.

Even as his eyes turn towards the sky, it too is cast grey, and the air is still, static even as his shallow breathing is the only thing that echoes between the walls. The silence is maddening, uncomfortable, and Adrien feels like he’s suffocating, the quietness of everything sounding like death.

_What will you give up this time, ---------?_

And the name should be in **bolded** red, in _italicized_ red, written clearly for him to see, but he doesn’t remember, can’t remember. The letters allude him, disappeared from his sights and it only but adds fuel to the fire of his anger that is burning in this monochrome world.

_Just who is she?_

The thought ricochets in his mind, bouncing from memory to memory and he always comes up short, but she’s just a figment of something he doesn’t recall, right? A loose tie like the stitching on his shirt, a ribbon of something that’s lost in the wind. Because she is the red that means life, that means love, that means happiness.

She gives him rose tinted glasses and the world is not so vast, but instead safely contained in her entire being because isn’t she supposed to be his whole world? This one person in which he loves more than life itself.

His mind is reeling, his steps shaky as he grips the side of the wall. The grit under his palm digs into his skin and it’s a reminder that the dizziness, the sunstroke of hallucination is just a part of his imagination, just like she’s a part of his imagination too.

Adrien takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He leans all his weight on bricks and pauses for a moment in his own choosing. “I’m here,” he mumbles to himself, his voice only soft enough to reach his ears. “I’m real.”

 _She’s not real, but I’m real_ , he tells himself, an affirmation to chase away longing that has already sunk it’s teeth into his heart.

“She’s not real,” he breathes out, the push of breath literally taking pressure off his heart.

The idea knocks on his head, a _tap tap_ rapping of a knock because it has to be true. His world is monochrome and red, but she’s not in it. And it’s a statement of fact that the sun is beating down on him, roasting him alive and he feels like he’s frying himself from the inside out. It’s not false that he’s a puppet with strings that are oceans long and it’s not wrong to say he has bad luck.

These are the truest of true facts. There is not a lie among them. Just like how humans walk on two feet.That’s a fact too.

Or it was.

It was a fact because now the world from under Adrien’s has been slipped away and he’s falling fast to hit the hard _hot_ ground.

(If he was paying attention, not lost in his own monochrome world, but being a part of the real one, he would have heard _her_ , would have seen _her_ coming running down the path chasing after a black cat. How long she and the cat have been on the same road of him isn’t important, just the fact that they intersect them on their chase).

(He would have heard her say _Come here, minou, minou, minou._ And he would have heard the cat yowling back with a tease as they barrelled down the street. Of course, this requires that Adrien would have had to continue to drink the enormous amount of water that he has stored in his equally impossibly large backpack so that he would have avoided slight heat stroke and dehydration).

So, here is he, sprawled on atop Chinese made concrete in the middle of nowhere China and his world is changing fast. Maybe it’s the shock or perhaps the suddenness of losing his footing in reality, but the monochrome world dotted with reds is fading away, colors all around him saturating the image that he sees.

With a blink, the red behind his eyelids is gone, the grey that soaked it’s way into the trees, the sky is no longer there. The sun is hot, but not hot white. The world isn’t being burnt alive.

And then there’s another blink and a breath when a shadow looms over him and all he can see is _blue_.

 **Bolded** blue, _italicized_ blue like the heavens above. Blue like the sky and blue like the sea. Blue like a thick rainfall that wets the ground to only sprout green. Blue like life and blue like clear days. Blue like water that heals his wounds from the edges until there’s nothing left behind.

Blue in her eyes and blue in her hair. It’s flooding his heart, his soul, his mind and Adrien is drowning in an ocean that she controls. He’s the sea, but she’s the movement, the current that pushes and pulls. And there is oxygen in her molecules and somehow he can breathe and color seeps his vision.

Rain starts to drizzle, accompanied with a gentle breeze to drive the summer heat away. The scents of earth and gravel rise up from the ground and from the drops. Adrien tastes the metal in the air that’s only noticeable in summer.  The small pinpricks of water cool his skin and the anger that raged inside of him and misting away, each raindrop putting out the flames.

Life is overflowing and he can see it.

The heat of the cement slightly burns his skin, but for some reason it’s like he’s had a reset. There is peace with this rain, newness with it too.  

A hand reaches out towards him--palm up and inviting--and he sees the stars in her smile. “Are you okay?”

And in this moment when he blinks once more and the blue that has exploded his world of grey has manifested into a person. Her smile and her eyes all meld into one face and Adrien stares, jaw slacked at the girl from the bus stop.

_What was her name?_

He stares for a second longer, the moment stretched out as her hand is reaching out towards him, and when he takes it, thunder roars in the distance. He ignores the sense of relief that washes over him just as the rain takes away the heat. She smiles and pulls him up with ease and Earth is once again flat under his feet.

Droplets of water stick to her hair and she lightly kicks a loose stone on the pavement. “Sorry about knocking you down...”

He laughs, it’s dry and weird, but it’s a laugh. “It’s fine, I guess I didn’t see you.”

She hums for a second and pushes away the damp bangs from her forehead. “I was too busy chasing a cat to see you too.”

He’s about to ask what she means, but the thunder sounds again and the heavens open up and water falls. Buckets of water, pails of water land with a splash from the sky and both he and French Girl start running in the direction he’s been headed.

She’s leading and he’s following, their footsteps landing in puddles and soaking their socks. His backpack is heavy again, but there is a familiarity in its weight as there is a familiarly in this moment.

 _His world is red and blue and comprised of one girl who always looks back to see if he’s there_.

It’s a flash when the lightning strikes, but his out of place memory syncs up with reality as the girl in front of him looks over her shoulder too. The back of his mind is tickling him, saying _don’t you remember this_ , but he doesn’t. And he won’t.

(For they are dreams he doesn’t remember about a time he already forgot).

“There’s a restaurant up ahead,” she yells through the downpour.

But the narrow and straight street seems to have changed now that Adrien has woken up so to speak, for he is seeing everything. There are trees that rustle overhead, cracks in brick and dips in the sidewalk. There signs that tell the speed limit posted frequently and the walls don’t seem so high.

Which is the only reason that he notices it a second after she’s passed it that there’s an alley, a break in the middle of the masonwork. For the second time today, his mind is screaming déjà vu’ when he yells, “Hey, you missed a spot!”

(He doesn’t know why he says spot and he doesn’t know that in previous lifetimes he would have called her LB).

She turns quick on her heel and her eyes dart to the opening too. She grins, her face flushed from running. “You got a good eye.”

It’s only then when she’s in front of him again that he notices that she’s getting drenched to the bone. It’s also the same moment when he smacks himself on the forehead, the facepalm heard despite all the rainfall.

“I knew I packed this for a reason...” he mumbles to him as he shuffles through his backpack and finally finds it.

When he finds it, he stands up and opens it until it's over both of them, the downpour outside creating a world underneath their umbrella. She’s so close now that he can feel her body heat and that thought makes his heart squirm. He swallows. “Um, I really...didn’t have ill intentions earlier,” he starts, “when I was trying to help you…just so you know.”

The soft rain pitter patters and bounces off the nylon fabric of the umbrella. There’s a skip between them, though he’s unsure if that’s his heartbeat or the second, when she finally speaks. Her fingers are so delicate when goes to hold the handle too, her fingers barely brushing against his.

“I know,” she says softly, looking at him through thick black lashes. “You’re not a bad person.”

He smirks a little bit, stands somewhat straighter at the praise. “How do you know that?”

She rolls her eyes and hums, the sound like sunlight from where they stand. “I can just tell.” The words seem to hold more meaning than he knows, but he can’t stop the warmth that is spreading in his chest.

However, the moment is quickly pushed aside and replaced with another when she exclaims. “Oh! It’s the temple I’ve been looking for!”

He’s not sure when and he’s not sure how, but the rainy, gray sheets of rain and mist had parted like a deity’s heavenly beaded curtain to reveal what they’d been looking for. In the distance rests a sweeping structure, with an elegantly tiled roof. He has to take a moment, jerking back slightly when his hand slips on the handle of the umbrella and touches hers.

His breath curls into a delicate ringlet of condensation, short and hurried as he takes in the red columns and intricate cerulean tiles that lace the edges of the building. The gilded golden tendrils that twine around are hardly bright enough to offset the panic the other two colors induce.

Red and blue, red and blue, red and blue…

And finally, a reprieve.

Green. A verdant canopy of trees pepper the ground, swaying heavily in the summer breeze. The droplets of rain dot the picturesque gardens, softening every corner and every point until his thoughts curdle into a haze of emerald. His eyes are bright, reflecting the self-same color. His nostrils flare and take in the scent of petrichor--sweet, earthy, anchoring. His shoulders heave in an audible sigh. His entire form is unlaced, dropping its taut lines until he’s slumped beneath the weight of his backpack.

A calming touch. The warmth of her hand on his chilled fingertips. It brings him back to a reality he’s having a hard time adjusting to.

Her eyes are wide in wonder and worry, her pretty bloom of a mouth wilted in concern as she looks at him.

What a kind soul she is… _(what an endearingly kind, stupid soul)_

The thought pierces through his reasoning and he can’t help but pull away a bit. Erratic. Nothing makes sense. And there is a dull throbbing in his chest, and the pain radiates through, stringing him with a searing anger he’s not aware of.

_(Why? Don’t do this again. Let me die! You need to live. Why?)_

She ducks her head a bit, tilting it ever so fetchingly. Her loose strands of hair fall delicately across her face, and she uses her free hand to tuck them back behind her ears.

Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks a pair of red earrings would look really nice on her. He chides himself for this. Nonsense thoughts are appearing at a rapid pace, building up into a hill of tangled and tainted emotions that have no place here.

“Ah...umm...I’m okay. Sorry for being so weird. I just...I feel a little dizzy still,” he explains.

She hums a bit dubiously, arches a questioning brow at his stumbling words. She doesn’t believe him, but there must be something in his expression that lets her drop the subject.

“I still think we should find somewhere to get out of this rain. I’m not exactly dressed for it,”  she shivers a little, using one hand to pull in the edges of her blush colored cardigan closer together.

He agrees wholeheartedly, and gives her a grateful smile.

The rain falls harder. The drops bounce off of the cracked pathway, hitting stalks of grass and making stubbornly growing dandelions wave with the force of it all. They hurry their steps; his sneakers squish in the mud peeking through the gaps in the concrete and heat floods his cheeks when he notices her dainty steps make only a slight clicking sound.  The strangest thing is that it takes little effort for her to match the strides of his much longer legs.

She’s as gentle as the rain in her movements, something in her leads her forth with an indeterminable force. It shines in that starry smile. It swirls in those sky-blue eyes. It sparks in the lilt of her voice and he is lost to the rain and to the girl.

They ascend the steps of the temple, graceful steps and undignified squelches echo in the vastness underneath the roof. The rain sounds like hollow promises, now no longer hitting the taut fabric of the umbrella. There’s so much more red up close, glossy and sacred in the same way strings and blood can be.

“Thanks for the umbrella,” she says sweetly, and her smile is everything in this moment. Her lips aren’t as red as the ropes tied around the massive columns, but he swears his good fortune has tripled.

Reverence settles within him, and it hardly does anything to temper the radiating ache in his chest when her hand slips away from the handle. The warmth quickly leaves his chilled finger tips, and he finds himself clutching onto wood of the handle tighter so he doesn’t reach for her.

His heart hurts so much and he doesn’t even know why. He numbly closes the umbrella, shaking out droplets in the entrance. He does it all without looking at it.

He’s a creature made of lost and found things, watching as French Girl moves ahead of him, her back growing smaller and smaller as she picks a path without question and moves on ahead.

Unexpectedly...entirely unprovoked, she looks over her shoulder with a coy glance.

“Aren’t you coming?”

And heaven help him because if he wasn’t completely lost before, he is now. He bounds after her, backpack flapping undignified against his back and umbrella still in his grip, but he’ll be damned if he loses sight of her again.

She flashes him an amused expression when he clatters to a stop next to her, holding onto the straps of his backpack with as much gravitas as he can muster.

“What exactly do you have in there? You even had an umbrella in the middle of summer. You’re a very paranoid person, aren’t you?”

What a strange choice of words. He’s been described as prepared for the worst, observant, practical, neurotic...but paranoid? Not quite.

He grumbles a bit, his nose wrinkling in thought. She begins walking again down a hall to the right, arms behind her back as she scans the area with curiosity bright and searing in her eyes.

“I..I wouldn’t say paranoid exactly. Maybe just really prepared. You wouldn’t believe this, but I have really bad luck most of the time.”

She seems to frown at that, contemplating.

“It just seems like you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something bad to happen. That’s not really an enjoyable way to live, is it?”

Adrien’s mouth is halfway open to answer when she cuts him off. She’s waving her hands in front of her, her words running together into a stream of barely comprehensible apologies.

“Oh my god...that was so rude. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to judge you. You’re probably right about being prepared and stuff and I’m just such a go-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of person and I don’t have any right to say stuff like that. I just really, really don’t like packing and maybe that’s why I don’t understand. B-but you're free to live your life the way you want. Don’t let someone like me tell you otherwise...I’m really, really-”

His laughter rolls pleasantly, washing away the slew of her words with a warm tone. He can’t help it. She’s back to the girl that he knew at the bus stop. The one who had been hurriedly pushed onto a bus with no inkling as to what her future held. The one who took it all in stride and made earnest, sometimes too honest, explanations.

And he decides that maybe then and there, he should take a page out of her guide to life and stop worrying so much.

The rain’s distant pattering becomes a little louder, ringing in time with their heavy steps on the creaking wood floors. They round a corner and come into the vicinity of a long stone courtyard, this time the droplets bouncing off the cracked concrete, leaping happily to greet the newcomers.

Adrien is barely reaching into his voluminous backpack to bring out the tucked away umbrella. His attention is torn away, tugged in her vibrant direction just as before. His neck cranes to watch her speed past him, and he is powerless in the face of her enthusiasm. He feels like a marionette, swept away on the residual movements of the strings she pulls against him.

 “Turtles! Look! Oh my GOSH, they’re so cute!” she cheers, her smile edging into her eyes to make them glint in the sunless gray light. She’s so bright as she turns to the inlaid stone pond in the center of the courtyard.

In her excitement, she’s gone right out into the downpour without shelter. She’s shivering a little, but her impulsivity still hums through her as she bends over and begins cooing excitedly at the little green turtles, some piled in stacks of two or three.

Adrien is mesmerized and he wants to call for her. His fingers stretch, unseen by his side but he no sound comes to his mouth. His lips tremble, as if for a second they could curl and form her name.

( _m...M...MMMM)_

“H-hey! “ is all he can manage.

She whirls to look back at him, tilting her head with a questioning glance. Curiosity gleams in those blue eyes of hers and he finds that despite the rain, his throat is still parched and he’s lost his train of thought.

“Uh...Uh...umbrella?” He gestures vaguely, miming opening up one very stiffly. His right arm stretching above his head.

Her eyes widen in realization, lips pursing into a small circle as she mouths “oh”. She brings up her arms to hug herself, as if suddenly aware that is dressed in nothing but shorts and a thin cardigan in the rain. Her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment, and he sees that same apology perched on her tongue, ready to fly out and flutter in his face.

He takes the leap, letting his steps fall wide from the ledge onto the cobblestone below. The rain pierces cold and awake, pressing frigid fingers that do nothing against the heat in his chest as he looks at her with an awe too earnest for her not to notice.

“It’s better like this.” He says quietly as he stops in front of her, lifting a hand, palm up to catch a few droplets.

She relaxes, mimicking his action, and her smile falls as spreads as gently as the ripples in the water behind them.

“Yeah...it’s nice.”

The rain softens, eventually becoming little more than a mist that settles over them. The sun breaks through the gray, and the water becomes a brilliantly shifting jade, rippling softly. Sunbeams embrace them, enfolding them in a pleasantly creeping warmth that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They stare at the turtles for a few more minutes in comfortable silence, before she has the bright idea to look at the brochure for some more guidance. She rummages through the pocket of her sweater, and pulls out the crumpled paper, making Adrien wince at it’s damp and runny state.

She sheepishly grins at him as she unfolds it, smoothing out the veiny lines running through where it had been folded and tracing a slim finger down the inner leaflet to where the name of the temple was printed.

And wonder of wonders, the haze mist of the rain seemed to curl thicker, tendrils sweeping around them and skimming across the surface of the pond.

Adrien’s sight grows blurry, and the characters on the page wriggle and twist, eventually breaking free of the moist paper and fluttering like black butterflies in the air towards him. He’s frozen, utterly unsure if what he’s seeing is real or not, and he doesn’t know if she sees this, but his palm was outstretched, waiting.

The ink settles with a shiver in his grasp and when he closes his fist tightly, a harrowing maze of impressions rushes through him. He blinks fast and the world is clear once more, mist thinning out underneath the summer sun.

French Girl is too busy looking at the images on the brochure to notice, but the characters on the front are not ones he recognized. He reads them out, almost sure that they had changed and flown away, too alive to be anything but his imagination. His head pounds something fierce.

“Did...did you just…” she begins, but pales when she sees his questioning glance. “Ah never mind. It’s just...It shows some grave stones on here? That’s so weird.”

He’s so sure she wants to say something else, but her voice is so quiet and trembling, he’s afraid to ask for more.

Adrien shakes his head, placing a hand to his forehead as he reads the title again. He squints, but the characters remain stubbornly still and normal. Inked in black.

“Hmm...That’s so strange...I was so sure this was the Lovers’ Temple...It’s actually The Dead Lovers’ Temple.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the inky butterfly sit on his finger as he holds the paper. Its wings flutter, once, twice before delicately floating away, caught in the wind and the haze. He knows that he should be looking at the map, but he doesn’t--his eyes having to follow the creature that crawls out of the pages.

His companion--can he call her that? Would that be too forward?--trails her sight along with his, both watching in tandem as the small thing flies and flounces and dances on invisible waves. Into the grey it goes; grey like the world Adrien constantly knows, but it does not remain monotone.

There is gold, but not like the sun, simply aged metal glinting from the rays. From it comes smoke, swinging to and fro in a metronome motion. It is not a piano that it keeps in time though, but instead a monk’s chant as he emerges into view. Deep and guttural sounds ricochet in the temple’s stoney court yard as the man walks up the steps.

Behind him is a family--a small one at that--of people with stoic faces, but no tears to shed. _Maybe it’s a send off_ , Adrien thinks, _maybe they just can’t mourn the dead_.

But mourning is normal and grief is indeed a thing. He knows that as well like just how the sky is blue. But it’s a send off he concedes, their bodies stiff and corpselike in their own right as their bare footsteps fall heavy on the wooden stairs.

 _When they’re gone...there is only so much of yourself you can let die with them_.

“They’re strong,” he hears French girl mumble, words not meant for him but heard nonetheless.

Looking back at the page in his hands, the word _dead_ doesn’t scream, but remains as is.

“Well, sometimes people just gotta live, you know?” He throws in a small smile and the world slowly starts to come back into focus, the rushing sound of water in the pond, the chirping of the birds. “After all, those who died must have been lovers.”

There is a second and a beat, and the world starts to flood with color again, hues sweeping into every corner of the scene before them. The breath in his chest is sweet and he can’t help but look over at French Girl, her blue eyes shining bright. His face twists, confusion in every wrinkle of his brow.

However, she speaks before she does, her words pure white. “You’re strong, you know?”

“Not paranoid?” he tries to joke because the longer he keeps staring at her the more he knows he should remember something. Anything.

Her mouth quirks, a smile buried in her cheek. “Only sometimes....”  
The pause is longer than he expected, the lull in conversation seeming out of place. “...Sometimes?” he also rolls his hand in circles for good measure.

Her face colors with surprise, pink and fresh, before breaking out into a laugh. She throws her head back, her raven locks rippling down her back in a dark waterfall. Her laughter exposes all her teeth, from her front two to back molars, and out comes the most resounding chuckle. “I don’t think you’ve told me you name.”

Embarrassment shuffles quick between them, fast and erratic, but just as carefully fluttering as the black characters from earlier had been. He gives a stiff little laugh, lifting his hand to rub the back of his head.

“I just...realized that. Before anything else happens, my name is Adrien Agreste.”

He offers her his right hand, extends his long arm until he broaches the space exactly between them with a strange expectation. It laces through every cord of his muscles, straining and holding him in one piece. For that he is grateful, because for some reason when her smile slips and she blinks quickly as if clearing her thoughts, he can feel the cogs within him grinding to a halt.

_(Maybe he should have offered a fist instead?)_

And then, in the way one witnesses awe, she smiles again. Her slim fingers come to twine around his own exactly in the middle, and her grip is the reality that is his tether hold.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Resident of Paris and clueless traveler. Pleasure to finally meet you face to face, Adrien.”

He feels an unbelievable warmth emanate from the point of contact, tendrils of heat lick up his arm and swirl into the vicinity of his chest. And the familiarity is staggering enough that he feels his breath hitch and he smoothly pulls his hand from hers, cheeks pale and eyes bright.

“I uh...I..It’s nice to meet you too,” he crosses his arms defensively. “but I’m guessing you already know who I am.”

He waits for the inevitable screeching. The incoherent stream of requests and compliments that might be genuine, but seem hackneyed and dull from most everyone that he meets. He’s heard them so many times...he just wishes that this time could be different.

_(And it always is with her, isn’t it?)_

He is surprised for not the first time when she laughs a little louder, her shoulders high and her chin lifted to look full in the eye.

“Yeah. Of course I know of you….I mean, I can’t work for your father’s company and NOT hear about how great you are, you know? You’re practically the poster kid..” Her voice then turns soft and her cheeks tinge pink “...and you kind of wore my bowler hat design when I was in high school...so yep. I know who you are.”

His posture unfurls like the lotuses in the pond behind them. His hands come down to his sides, his back curling into an easier curve as the relief settles within him and all the expectation washes away like dust in the rain. He feels giddy, heady happiness swirling headily in his mind as he beams.

“You work for my father’s company?! I mean...of all the things...of all the people I could have met...that’s pretty amazing. God, I wonder if this is like fate or something.”

For reasons he cannot fathom, she seems to dim a little at that.

“Y-yeah...like fate or something.”

She seems to pull at something from within herself, letting it wrap her up in the red folds of determination. He thinks he might hate the way it hardens her expression and wilts her smile into something more bitter than sweet.

Distractions. Anything to make her forget whatever is paining her. _‘Why so devoted to a girl you barely know, Adrien?’_ He asks himself, but it goes unheeded because the need to make her smile again is overwhelming.

“Shell we get a move on? I really want to see the rest of the temple. It looks turtle-y amazing in the brochure!”

Oh crap. He claps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide in embarrassment when she freezes and gapes up at him. Something about this all feels so odd, and he swears that by now, someone he once knew would have pinched his arm for saying something so stupid. But it had just leapt out, perfectly formed and ready to be hurled at whichever innocent bystander happened to be there.

“I...wait...I didn’t mean-”

Her laughter is real and raw this time. It is neither delicate or composed. It is incredibly round and rich in tone, burgeoning with joy as it bounds off the courtyard stones. It bubbles like the water and he swears he sees stars when she stops laughing enough to say-

“That was so bad, Adrien. Y-yeah, _lotus_ go see the rest of the temple.”

And he can barely register how or when, but her hand is on his arm and she’s tugging him across the stone to the other side of the temple. His vision is laced with gold and statues of Buddha and the sharp scent of incense burns in his nose, but all he can see is this girl in front of him, inexorable and powerfully bright.

He only stops when she does, and he notices that the clouds have dissipated and the summer is returning full force. Cicadas drone in the dappled shade underneath willow trees that line the graveyard.

She stares at the raised stones reverently, somber respect and gentle curiosity at war in her eyes.

He misses her warmth when she lets go of his arm, but she’s too wrapped up in her own discoveries to notice the way he rubs at the place where her fingers had been placed.

They walk in silence for a bit, a tranquility settling over them that is promptly broken by a sharp gasp and a stumbling step. He catches her before she can fall any further, but his attention is entirely too wrapped up in the shaking finger she points at a newly hewn gravestone.

The characters shine in the marble, etched deep and certain into the stone.

Someone cares for this person. It’s obvious by the fresh incense still burning in a pewter plate at the base, the fresh lilies resting against it, and by the lovingly cared for small portrait of an elderly woman with a stern, yet kind expression.

“T-that’s...I can’t...but...” she stammers, backing away slowly from the stone and from him to rest against a wizened poplar, her fingers starkly white against the bark as she grips the trunk.

“H-holy shit…” he breathes, because there is the portrait of the little old lady from earlier. The one who had pushed him away from Marinette and the one that had promptly pulled her up onto the bus with a fiercely strong grip.

“I...I think I want to leave now,” Marinette says, her voice still shaking.

“Y-yeah. That’s a good idea,” he agrees.

The walk back to the bus stop is substantially faster, fear and a the feeling of waking from a dream making their steps quick and sure. They turn through the halls of the temple, through the courtyard without stopping to look at anything.

Adrien releases an audible sigh of relief when they make it to the street and the bus stop. He leans against the post, looking at his companion with incredulity blooming in the wake of his realization. His laughter is joined in with hers because ghost stories are always more fun when they’re shared, and always more enjoyable after they’re over.

“I-I’m so done. I don’t know what just happened...but I’m so glad you were there,” she says in between laughter, patting him comically on the shoulder as they both shake with humor.

“We just...saw a ghost. I’m speechless.”

Eventually, their laughter dies down enough that they can figure out which bus they need to take.

“Looks like you’ll need this one. It’s going in the other direction from where mine is going,” Adrien explains as they look at the map. A twinge of disappointment settles within him. He hadn’t fathomed having to separate again. Reluctance begins to fill in his thoughts, and really what wouldn’t he give to turn back time and have this strange oddity of an experience all over again if it meant he could stay with her a little while longer.

_(Again why so attached, Adrien?)_

He takes a decisive action. Takes a risk that maybe he wouldn’t have otherwise.

“We should do this together,” he tells her, his arm gesturing in the space between them.

She blinks up at him, stunned.

“W-what?”

“This. Traveling through China.” He points to the road. “Together. It would be really nice...not to be alone.”

His smile is brilliant, expectant and questioning. But now the tables are turned and she is the one left with the risks to weigh.

There is a slight crease at her brow and her mouth twists uncomfortably. “I don’t...I left my stuff back at the hotel. I kinda was planning something specific for this trip too, so...uh...I don’t know…”

Thought catches up quick to his desire as his eyes go wide at the realization what he’s asked. His expression becomes crestfallen, but quickly he waves his arms and shakes his head earnestly.

“Don’t feel pressured at all,” he tells her easily because it’s true. _What is wrong with me?_ “I’m sorry for suggesting something so random and making you feel obligated or uncomfortable.” He takes a breath and gives a small girn. “I really did have a lot of fun with you today...and I just thought that...well, hold on.”

He rummages through his massive backpack, pushing aside messily rolled clothes to pull out crinkled sheet of lined paper and a _very_ nice silver pen.

“Here. I’m going to give you my email. We can keep in touch,” the words punch out of his mouth with such honesty. “I mean since you work for my dad, we might have a lot to talk about. And it’d be really great if I can to stay in contact with a new friend.”

He finishes scrawling down his email. He hands her the paper, eagerly and without much else behind his motives other than a willingness to continue this new acquaintance with the French girl he met in the crossroads of Fate and China.

She takes the note without hesitation, a small smile blooming hesitantly on her face.

“Thank you,” she says.

And just as soon as she does, they hear the wild screeching of a huge bus coming to a halt. Hot, humid air blows past them and cards through the tendrils of her dark hair. He is mesmerized, but looks past her at the number on the vehicle.

“Oh man! That’s my bus. Gotta go! Keep in touch, Marinette.”

He runs just before the doors close on him and the bus driver shoots him a long glare. He apologizes quickly, pays the fare and heads towards the back,edging carefully around bags and suitcases and passengers. The bus lurches to crawl, and then he’s holding onto one of the straps, waving regretfully through the window at Marinette.

She seems to stall for a minute, and then returns the wave enthusiastically.

He thinks she looks like summer’s end, a small lonely figure on an empty road, golden in a sunny haze.

(He doesn’t see her look fondly down at the piece of paper as his bus fades away into the distance nor does he feel the rapid pace of heartbeat as her mind tries to wrap around the entire afternoon. He doesn’t see the way she bites her lip nor does he calm the tremor in her fingertips as she pulls out her phone.)

All he knows is that one second the bus is quiet until his notification rings in the air and the screen brights up the most amazing five words he’s ever saw strung in a sentence:  **Where are we going next?**

And as he replies, the world retains its color, **bolded** in red and _italicized_ in blue.


	3. round and round like the wheel of fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Adrien is a dweeb and Marinette is also a dweeb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, LIKE. WE CAN EXPLAIN. It's kinda hard to explain. but--we didn't forget this story and here we are. doing our thing. writing in this story. woot woot. 
> 
> (WE'RE SORRY!)

He dreams of things he doesn't remember. Of red and magic and gaping wounds he's not sure are supposed to be metaphorical. The edges of his vision are still tinged red too, soft petals falling away as he blinks to see the off white of his ceiling.

When he wakes, it's with a name fading from his lips like the last drops of morning dew dissipating in the face of the summer sun. He knows it’s _her_ name. The cusp of knowledge is still on the tip of his tongue, wanting to round off his lips and be real. However, just like always, her name doesn’t come to him, it stays tucked in his mouth barbing him with frustration.

( _So you see, I always sign my work with my name embroidered somewhere special--like blue birthday your scarf...that you weren’t supposed to know that I gave you...um...)_

Central China is hardly a place of mild temperatures and the heat of summer wakes him with a searing embrace. Tendrils of golden light pry open his eyes until he remembers nothing but loneliness. The mounted air conditioner breathes cold air into the room, making him feel sticky with the moisture it uses to cool him.

“It was just a dream,” he muses sadly, mouth twisting into a frown of contemplation as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. It’s at the morning crossroad of sadness and fatigue and blankness as everything starts to shift back into place.  

Adrien lifts himself up onto his arms, the slightly springy mattress squeaking underneath his weight. The small hotel room is neither ghastly or luxurious. It teeters on a sense of normality, dimly lit by the sunbeams eking their way past the plain maroon curtains that cover the window.

Construction work buzzes outside already, China building higher and higher as his heart dives lower into the pit of his stomach.

He looks around, spots his phone sitting innocently on the nightstand and then it hits him. Red and blue surge forth and paint the room as his heart beats wildly against his ribcage. He doesn't bother changing from his boxers or put on a shirt.  Doesn't bother wearing anything but worn sandals as he tears from the bed and all but runs to the door.

He leaves it wide open as he rushes across the hallway, vaguely ecstatic there's no one else here to see him in such a state of disarray. Not that it matters, it doesn’t. It can’t when his world is edging between dreaming and reality again and he just--he has to know.

But on second thought, Adrien decides that perhaps it’s better to do this fully dressed instead.

(Sometimes he’s impulsive, you see. Doesn’t always think and jumps feet first into new adventures almost as if there is nothing that can stop him. Almost as if he’s invulnerable.)

It is the second attempt when he scrambles across the hall after a quick shower and throwing clothes on that his fist hovers in front of the door. Desire crawls up his throat with fluttering cawls and sits at the base of his skull. Tap, tap, tapping his brain the way that his hand raps upon a pale standard hotel door. That whatever sad dreams may have plagued his sleep, his reality is sharply colorful in hues of shifting clarity that make him want to live fully.

He knocks again on the door and is rewarded when not a few seconds later, she answers. She’s freshly showered, moisture clinging to her hair with a question pitched between her brows.

“Adrien, morning,” she greets, her tone unsure. “You okay?”

There is a calmness that drips onto his skin and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Morning, Marinette,” and the way her name rolls off his lips soothes his heart. “I just--wanted to see if you were up?”

She stares blankly, about to gesture to her clothes before he steamrolls over her.

“But I guess you are! Of course, you’re--very much up and awake and--” he halts his speech and swallows a gulp of air. “Hi, my name is Adrien and I’m really weird right when I wake up.”

It’s not a lie to say, but his brain is scattered in every direction. She grins up at him as a solid reminder that he’s awake and this is real and the beam she emits helps ease his anxiety down to slumber as it should.

“It’s fine,” Marinette assures him, leaning on her doorframe. “If it wasn’t for the jetlag, I would honestly still be sleeping, but there’s only so much Chinese TV I can watch before I just give up and start my day.”

There’s a reprieve in this mundane conversation that helps root him into the present and he lets out a laugh. “Yeah, vacations do that you, you know? Make you get up earlier than normal.”   

“They do,” she hums, letting out a small yawn before playfully pushing him back. “I was about to go over to see if you were ready anyway. Wanna get breakfast?”

“Lead the way, ma’am,” he grins, moving somewhat out the way for her.

When she brushes past him, she looks over and corrects him, a smile at the corner of her mouth. “It’s Miss actually.”

“Miss then,” he agrees.

A part of him feels warm in the way that he watches Marinette walk ahead, her head held high and there is an air of mystery about her. He’s not sure exactly what, but when she turns around to call him over, it’s so familiar it almost hurts. The way she smiles, the bounce in her step, how lovely she looks in the light--

She reminds him of dreams he forgot, but that would be silly, right?

* * *

The morning takes an aimless, meandering path. Marinette fills his time with careful smiles and inane small talk that somehow doesn't seem as annoying coming from her.

It feels familiar. Comfortable even. Especially when he's weary and a bit confused in the middle of a land he knows very little about beyond the language.

Breakfast passes quickly, neither one of them very invested in chewing when there's words both conscious and not straining to break from their leaden tongues and flutter into the air between them.

Meandering leads them on a trek through hotel’s small town.

The asphalt is dusty and uneven underneath his careworn sneakers, the sleeves of his blue shirt are rolled up to let his bare arms feel at least some break from the humid heat. Marinette looks fresh as a daisy, and he's a little envious how poised she looks with her skin glowing in the sun and her now-dry hair twisted into a heavy bun on top of her head.

A slight summer breeze ruffles their hair, a savored moment as she turns around with her hands behind her back. Adrien’s mind replays the motion at hyperspeed in his mind, a subconscious part of him screaming that he’s seen this before, seen that hesitant smile, those blue eyes that gleam with mysteries untold.

“Could I--” she starts, looking unsure as she shuffles from foot to foot.

He leans in only slightly, can’t help himself from going closer. “Yes?”

She laughs nervously and gesturesacross the road. “Okay, do you want to ride bikes with me?”

He wants to reply, but her words have momentum, words spinning faster and faster until she's carrying him on a stream of explanations to god knows where.

“Because, like, I know we just agreed to start travelling together, but we don’t have any really plans today? Because tomorrow we’re going north and um? The bikes look really fun and I’ve been seeing them all around town and wouldn’t that be awesome?” Marinette rushes and Adrien is positive she hasn’t taken a single breath. “But it sounds so dorky and lame and I just? I think it would be a fun thing? Unless you don’t want to, then I totally understand! We can just walk and stuff?”

“Marinette--”

She sucks in a big breath of air and continues. “No, it’s okay! It was an awful and lame idea and I totally understand! Like who asks to go bike riding in China? That’s dumb, right? I don’t know because, you know, but wait you don’t know and I--”

“Hey Marinette--”

“--just don’t understand why you asked me to travel with you? Not like in that creepy serial killer way because I don’t think you’re going to kill me! That seems a bit out of character for you. Not like I can claim to know your character! I’m just saying, you seem so nice and I’m just here doing my own thing and you’re there--”

It is then that Adrien forgoes saying her name one more time, but instead places his hands gently on her shoulders. She tops babbling immediately and blinks up at him with the most owlish eyes. It makes his heart thump harder in his chest a bit, her adorable confused expression a bit too open that he’s used to actually seeing.

Giving her a little squeeze, he grins. “Yeah, that sounds fun, I’d love to go bike riding with you.”

“O-oh,” she breathes, veritably sagging in relief when he answers.

“Great,” he says blithely, amusement tugging at the corners of his pretty mouth.

“Great,” she echoes.

There's something scintillating in the depths of her gaze. Something altogether sad and nostalgic and _happy_.

It disappears fast and is quickly replaced with a wide eyed gratitude that makes his chest ache less and his head hurt more.

They walk in relative silence, the bustle of the wide street is enough to occupy their attention. Adrien still feels something caught on the tip of his tongue, something fleeting and something he feels has been nesting in his chest for a time longer than he's lived.

 _Nonsense._ It's all nonsense brought about by the heat of the day. His head isn't throbbing, but from his periphery he sees the top of her head bobbing with her leisurely pace. The sheen of her black hair is nearly blue in the sweltering sun, but the edge of his vision fills in the pretty sight with tendrils of red.

Red that wound around her inky strands and floated lonely and beckoning.

But he blinks and it's gone.

He gives a frustrated sigh, the warmth of his breath is lost in the humidity. But Marinette gives him a questioning look, tilting her head in curiosity.

Her pretty lips are pursed, and she's about to open them to ask something he's really sure he can't answer when something catches his eye just ahead of them.

Quickly before she can voice her thoughts, he plasters the largest smile he can muster and points to a slightly crooked row of bicycles just in front of a small store.

The large black characters on the dilapidated sign tell him that this is a bike rental shop.

“Sweet. We should totally explore the area on these babies,” he says excitedly. He's managed to convince himself that his excitement is genuine, but there's a slight edge if hysteria in his rounded notes.

She gives him a dubious look, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don't know... _bro_ ,”  she says the word with a grimace and he sheepishly wonders if he's been spending too much time around Nino. She simply plows on, hesitation clear in her voice. “These _babies_ don't really seem that uh...steady.”

Adrien has one of two options at this embarrassing moment in his short twenty three years.

One, he can either acknowledge that he's made a faux pas.

Or two, he can dig himself deeper.

And Adrien Agreste has always been a good digger.

The words rise effortlessly up his throat, sweeping right past the large something still caught on the edge of his tongue.

“Come on, Marinette. Don't tell me you're _two-tired_ already? This is an adventure. _Brake_ out of your comfort zone.” He starts and his grin becomes positively sinister as he continues needling her. “Unless, you can't _handle_ it of course. I can totally understand...which sucks because I was totally _spoke_ -d to spend the day wi-”

“ _Oh my god, just- ah...fine?!”_ She finally interrupts, her previously gaping mouth snapping shut with a deliberate snap.

“Yes!” He says with no small bit of triumph, and his green eyes are so bright and joyful that she can't help the smile that softens her disbelief.

Her smile devolves into laughter when he cheerfully pats the seat of the bike nearest to him too hard and it topples over, leading to a domino run of epic proportions as all the bikes in the row collapse against each other.The sound is deafening as all nine bikes clatter to the ground, tires spinning like some odd game with multiple wheels of fortune deciding their luck.

“Oops...” Adrien says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head and a distinctively anime-like gesture that tells Marinette this dork is a dweeb of massive proportions.

His embarrassment is doubled when the little old man who owns the shop comes out shouting at him.

* * *

After a number of profuse apologies and helping right all the bikes into proper positions, Adrien and Marinette finally let the store owner know that they want to rent two bicycles for the day.

The owner is still a little peeved. Luckily, none of his wares had suffered damage and Adrien was very earnest in compensating him for the inconvenience. Extremely earnest. And generous. Adding in Marinette’s plea in broken Mandarin with her pretty blue eyes shining endearingly, and the two managed to walk out with a relatively sturdy pair of bikes.

Marinette wheels hers expertly, weaving around potholes and divots all the while appraising Adrien’s sullen expression.

“What's wrong? I thought you wanted to ride bikes?” She asks genially, but the mirth crinkling her eyes tells him she knows exactly what's wrong.

He frowns, gesturing with one hand to the tail bike he maneuvers.

“It's pink...it's a bright, hot, attention-calling pink.”

“Pink is a perfectly lovely color.” She quips. “Besides, it matches the color your face turned when the shop owner was chewing you out.”

He sighs.

“It's not m-”

“Don't you dare give me the manliness bull. You're a model. Your father had an entire _Pink in Paris_ fashion line you wore two years ago. Issue 126, page 35 of Couture Parisienne.”

She says it with such conviction and accuracy, even nodding her head like an astute scholar.

Adrien’s jaw hangs for a moment and seconds tick between them as blue eyes snap open and Marinette turns the most lovely shade of _pink_.

“Um, what I was saying--um? Yeah. Uh--”

It’s jarring the way she shifts between completely confidant to unsure in a split second, as if two girls trying to house the same body, but Adrien takes it with an easy smile. He leans cooly on his bike, uncaring now that it’s bright pink because--honestly--he’s purely tickled.

Pink.

“Know a thing about fashion, don’t you?” he questions, his smirk catlike.

Marinette looks down, the blush fanning across her cheeks to down her neck with abounding speed. It matches the pretty color she has on her nails too and suddenly, the softness of this color is everywhere when she looks up at him. She’s outlined in it now, and there’s a fluttering in heart as he swears--swears--

He’s seen her look at him this way before, lashes thick as she peers through with a pretty pink mouth that pops with each syllable.

“It shouldn’t be a surprise. I work for your father, remember?” she says quietly as she meets his gaze. “As a designer, as a matter of fact. And I’m here in China gathering inspiration for my new line under the Agreste label.”

She swallows a deep breath before continuing.

“I didn’t know you would be here!” she assures him, “I had no idea and then we bumped into each other? And your offer was so sweet? And--”

Fate works in funny ways, his life intersecting with this woman in the oddest of places, Adrien thinks. He knows most of his father’s designers and it’s not uncommon for him to send them off on vacation to help jumpstart their brains. He lets it sit with for a moment, this new knowledge and swings a leg over onto his bike.

“So, you must’ve studied all of my spreads then?”

And things go back to the way they were before with Marinette clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes, relief pouring out of her as she lets out a laugh. “Yes, every single one. Even the one where you had on a very pretty pink sweater.”

“It was salmon.” He corrects half-heartedly.

“Pink!” She sings as she places her feet on the peddles and begins to ride past him with alacrity.

Adrien laughs as he pushes off the ground and starts to pedal down a slightly dusty street.  He can hear Marinette ahead of him, laughing wildly and looking over her shoulder with bright sparkling eyes. There’s a challenge in her gaze, in the way she stands up a bit and coasts on her bike.

He takes it with welcoming stride, cycling faster and faster until he’s by her side again. Around them, the street opens as tall walls fall away, a wide horizon stretching across the plains.  The openness is freeing, grassy hills where the thick stalks chime nature’s melody as the wind breezes past. It ruffles in his hair, in Marinette’s too, and his heart feels light, like he’s flying, jumping--soaring.

There are beginnings as there are ends, but there is no end in sight, not right now when friendship buds between him and this woman. It’s bright and circles his heart the way the Earth rotates around the sun. It is fact, the bond between them growing and new things to come.

(Fate smiles, tucked far away in shadows and in lights. Beginning and ends, ends and beginnings. Neither exist when caught in cycles, in circles where alpha is omega and this--these two, are always--shall always be alpha and omega.)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this insane au where everything can happen and magic isn't really off the table!
> 
> Also, this story is a lot on mine (turtle's) summer I spent in China when I taught English there.


End file.
